it is

the gently rocking cradle

that is memaw’s old house

or the sweet bourbon aroma

that rides within the wind

mixing with pine and newly opened peony

it could be the creak of the rocking chair

or the sway of the hammock

the way everything is softer here

and the creek with the swinging bridge  is an old family friend

down home thunderstorms bring lightning upon blackened canvas

that turn the sky into a jackson pollock painting

stone paths are blooming

bees are window shopping through wild flowers

everything is pregnant

and i haven’t


this well

in years

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